


Elemental

by gin_and_ashes



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gin_and_ashes/pseuds/gin_and_ashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old wounds sometimes cause phantom pains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to jlrpuck for her fantastic work as beta.

In her first confused, overwhelmed days on the TARDIS, Rose Tyler learned several important things, such as: "Just because it looks like a chair, that doesn't mean it is one," and "Don't open the door to the carnivorous plant room. Ever." She learned that the TARDIS had at least three kitchens, one of which was completely purple, floor to ceiling; a wardrobe that spanned several storeys; and, most curiously, a massive and very old-fashioned-looking library.

It was like something out of one of the period dramas her mum loved to watch on telly--towering shelves filled with books in any number of languages, sofas and chairs ranging in condition from "lovingly careworn" to "frighteningly ratty," a variety of desks and tables (themselves piled high with books), even an old oriental-style carpet, though the pattern woven into it was like no carpet she'd ever seen before. The only thing the room lacked--the thing all the libraries in great houses everywhere had--was a cosy fireplace. It was a little thing, hardly worth noticing except in the omission, and the lack of it made the room feel oddly empty.

After many weeks, her curiosity could be contained no longer. They were in the console room, the Doctor mulling over their next choice of planet, when Rose finally asked him about the fireplace, or lack thereof. His response was immediate--and scathing.

"Why would I want to have an enormous open flame in a room full of priceless books?" he scoffed. "Use your head, Rose."

"But I thought…"

"Thought what?"

"I thought all libraries had fireplaces. You know, the big houses and castles and all those places we've been, they've all had them, every one."

"Any place we've been with a working fireplace in the library is a place that needed it for heat and light. The TARDIS doesn't."

Obviously thinking the discussion complete, the Doctor turned back to the console, studying the readout on the monitor there. Rose, however, wasn't mollified.

"Yeah, but you don't need the books, either, do you? Couldn't you have all that on computers, or something?"

"Of course I _could_."

"But…"

"But I don't," he replied, as if that could be an explanation. Rose's frustration mounted.

"Why not?"

Sighing, the Doctor turned back towards Rose, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the console. "It's partly practical," he said. "What happens if the TARDIS loses power, or the computer system is corrupted somehow? Not that it would, of course, there's nothing can get in here--but the point stands."

"Fair enough. What's the other reason?"

"What other reason?"

Rose's mouth quirked; her eyes narrowed as she leaned in, cornering the Doctor physically as well as rhetorically. "You said it was partly practical, why you keep so many books. What's the other part, then?"

The Doctor shifted, pursed his lips, then huffed in irritation. "I just enjoy a book, all right? I happen to like the experience. There's something about reading a book--a proper one, mind you, not the sad, pulpy excuses for books you lot have been churning out for the past seventy years or so--that's superior."

"How'd you mean?"

His eyes flashed with something akin to ardour. First they widened, then narrowed slightly, revealing his laugh lines. He unfolded his arms, raising his hands as if he held a book in them.

"A real book, Rose, is more than the words printed inside. So much more. It's everything--the smell of the leather, the weight of it in your hands, the sound the pages make as you turn them, the way you can feel the type under your fingertips--all of that together is something you could never get from a computer screen." He sniffed disdainfully. "The only thing you can get from reading a book on that--" He jabbed an accusatory finger at the monitor. "--is a headache."

"You're so strange," Rose said, with a shake of her head. It was spoken quietly, more to herself than to him, though that didn't keep him from overhearing--and taking offence.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he sputtered. His arms dropped to his sides, his body going ramrod-straight as he stared daggers at her.

"You're just...you're so old-fashioned. I mean, really old-fashioned. Like, 'my gran would tell you to hurry up and get with the times already' old-fashioned."

"You forget, Rose. I'm more than ten times your grandmother's age."

"Maybe," she shot back. "But you also live on a spaceship."

" _Time_ ship."

"Yeah, that just makes it worse."

"Worse?" he squeaked, his expression stricken. The muscles in his neck tensed; the tendons there began to stick out.

Rose backtracked quickly. "Not because of the TARDIS! I love it."

" _Her_."

"Okay, _so_ not going there. What I meant was, you've got the most amazing ship in all of time and space, right?"

Hearing that, the Doctor preened; ignoring his oh-so-predictable response, Rose carried on. "And it-- _she_ , sorry--can pretty much do anything, go anywhere, change herself inside and out. Well, the 'out' part in theory, anyway."

"Your point?" He shot from self-satisfaction to churlishness so fast it made her head spin. Still, she pressed him.

"And since she can do anything--absolutely anything--she could fix the chair over there." Rose pointed to the jump seat. "But instead you have it patched with tape."

"So?"

"And she could probably make you some sort of fireplace for the library, one that looks real but wouldn't burn the books."

The Doctor stared in horror at Rose. "Are you suggesting the TARDIS put a _fake_ fire in the library?" he spat out, clearly disgusted. "One of those rotating lamps, maybe, or the unnaturally orange plastic that's flapped about by a tiny fan?" He made an exaggerated shudder. "Sounds like something Jackie would do."

Rose, ignoring the by-now-commonplace insult to her mum, continued. "But the TARDIS hasn't done that. You know, except for the candles in my room, I've never seen a single open flame anywhere on this ship. Why is that?"

"They're a danger." Another terse response, another non-answer that tested Rose's patience.

"Can't the TARDIS put out a fire? Or even stop one from happening?"

"To a point, but...wait." The Doctor straightened, springing forward from the console and advancing on Rose, staring her down. "Did you say you had candles in your room?"

"Yeah."

"Why? It's not like you need them for light."

Rose shrugged. "Dunno. I just like 'em. They're pretty, and they smell nice--"

"My ship doesn't need to be perfumed."

"--and besides, everyone looks better by candlelight."

Her eyes twinkled. She flashed her usual teasing grin at him, expecting him to smile back, or perhaps roll his eyes and take a gentle dig at her. Instead, a chill descended over the console room. The Doctor's eyes darkened; his body stilled and tensed. It made Rose uneasy.

"Who do you plan on seeing by candlelight?"

"Wha...what?" she stammered. His expression--she couldn't quite figure it out. It seemed thunderous and terrified, all at once...over a silly candle. It made no sense.

"Who, exactly, do you expect to be seeing by candlelight in your room, Rose?"

The stoniness had left his face. His tone was dismissive, even a bit mocking--much more what she'd grown to expect from him when discussing such matters. Maybe she'd misinterpreted what she'd seen--what she thought she'd seen--before.

"None of your business," she shot back cheekily.

"My ship. My business." The Doctor's voice was cool, but there was an edge there. Or perhaps she was imagining things again. He was so inscrutable--completely impossible to get a read on. It-- _he_ \--made her dizzy, and that made her angry.

"Not when it comes to what goes on in my room, it doesn't." Now it was her turn to advance on him, eyes wide with barely restrained anger. "If you've been spying on me--"

"Rose, I couldn't care less what you get up to in that room--or any other--or what pretty boy you're up to it with this week."

"This _week_?" she shrieked.

"But I will not have you setting the TARDIS on fire while you do it. You may not have noticed, but it's not always smooth sailing through the Vortex. A sudden jolt, a hard landing, and that pretty candle you fancy so much could get thrown right off your night table and onto your bed. And yes, the TARDIS could--would--put out the fire, but not...not before..."

He faltered; Rose pounced.

"Not before what?" she demanded.

"Not before you'd be burned, all right?" he practically spat the words at her.

Rose was beyond incredulous. "You're worried I'm gonna set myself on fire? Really? Everything we've seen, everything we've faced, and you--the big, tough Time Lord--is scared of a little candle?"

She expected him to scoff. She expected him to bluster and bellow, to insult her, her mum, her entire species and half a dozen others, all the while asserting his physical and intellectual superiority. What she didn't expect--what she got--was complete, unnerving silence. Instead of lashing out, the Doctor seemed to retreat deep within himself, reliving some ancient, untold horror; a sheen of unshed tears sparkled in his wide yet unseeing eyes. Disquieted, Rose took a tentative step forward, reaching for but not quite touching his arm. When he spoke at last, his voice was distant, hollow--and so very, very old.

"You don't know what fire can do, Rose. In seconds--just _seconds_ \--it can take away everything you…" His voice trailed off. He turned his head, his eyes alighting on her, then widening, as if he was surprised to still see her there. "Everything," he repeated.

Dumbfounded, her earlier pique forgotten, Rose stared in bewilderment at the Doctor. She was sure she'd never seen him like this: so lost, so small. It frightened her, more than anything she'd seen since he'd first taken her hand.

"I'll get rid of the candles," she said.

The Doctor's eyes drifted shut. He took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing it as he turned away from her. He leaned heavily on the console, his head dropping as though it were far too heavy a weight for him to hold up. Rose watched, her brow furrowed in distress, as he remained like that for several silent moments.

"No, Rose," he sighed at last. The garish green light of the Time Rotor enhanced the starkness of his features, making him look tired and drawn. "Don't mind me."

He straightened, pushing himself off wearily from the console, then turned and walked away with heavy footsteps, leaving Rose behind, confused and very much alone.


	2. Chapter 2

After the Doctor's...whatever it had been in the console room, Rose didn't see him for an entire day. Usually the only time that happened was when one or both of them were imprisoned, kidnapped, or otherwise detained. For him to outright avoid her, even after an argument, was unheard of. They squabbled sometimes, sure. Didn't every...didn't even the best of friends, once in a while? But usually he'd pretend nothing had happened and carry on, often before she considered the discussion finished. In fact, that's how she usually knew they'd been truly fighting. If they were just kidding around, he'd carry on arguing with her for days. It was only when he stopped speaking that she knew she'd hit a nerve. But this time he'd not only given up talking, he'd well and truly vanished.

For a full day, wherever she was on the TARDIS, he wasn't. It hurt to think he was avoiding her--something he'd never done, not even on those rare occasions when she'd wanted him to. Once concern had begun to outweigh pride, she went looking for him, though with no success. Eventually she worked herself up into a strop. She even started to think about demanding to be taken home--not for real, not forever, just to get back at him for slighting her. And then he reappeared, all not-quite-smiles and frantic energy, relentlessly moving forward and refusing to discuss or even acknowledge what had happened the day before.

The days ran together as they travelled, darting from one adventure to another at a breakneck pace. They met a dozen new sentient species, saw at least as many worlds, and saved a fair number of each. Strangely, though, few of the encounters escalated into what Rose considered to be genuine peril. They certainly weren't the life or death scenarios into which they usually became entangled. It was almost as if the Doctor had chosen each world for its relative safety, trying to keep her busy and interested while always avoiding true danger. Which is exactly what she would have suspected him of doing, had he not been such a crap driver.

To make matters worse, for the past three days they hadn't travelled anywhere at all. Instead, they were stuck floating aimlessly (or so it seemed) in the Vortex. The TARDIS had overexerted herself on their last trip, the Doctor explained, and she needed some down time to rest and repair.

It was enjoyable, at first. The peace and calm made for a pleasant change, and it gave Rose time to explore the TARDIS at length--something she rarely got to do, at least without interruption. But even that lost its appeal after a day or two, especially since the Doctor seemed content simply to tinker on his own rather than keep her company. He wasn't avoiding her anymore, but neither was he seeking her out. Now, after days of nothing happening, she was hopelessly bored.

Which was how she found herself in her room on the TARDIS, alone save for the piles of laundry that surrounded her. Ordinarily she'd have saved her wash for her mum. She didn't need Jackie to wash her clothes for her--the TARDIS had a washer/dryer, and a surprisingly mundane one at that--but it made Jackie feel needed, and kept her trusting that Rose would always come back, just as she'd promised.

Trouble was, it had been weeks since they'd been to Earth, much less to the London of Rose's timeline. Her jeans were manky, her pyjamas even more so, and she was perilously close to running out of knickers. All she had left now were a ratty old pair with dodgy elastic and a lacy scrap of a thing that was designed more for looking at and removing quickly than as an actual undergarment. In all the time she'd been in the TARDIS, she'd never worn it. Frankly, she wasn't sure why she'd brought it along--not that it mattered. What did matter was that she desperately needed clean clothes. Since the Doctor showed no sign that he intended to bring her home anytime soon, she was going to have to wash them herself.

She sat on her bed, sorting her clothes into piles by colour and fabric (she'd learned the hard way that some alien fabrics should never be washed with Earth clothes). When she was done, the bed was filled; she sighed in resignation at the task before her. The wash was going to take all day. Or night, or whatever it was.

"At least it'll give me something to do," she said to herself as she loaded the first heap of clothing into a basket and headed for the laundry room.

Back and forth she went, washing, drying, and folding for what seemed like hours, sometimes nodding off as the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the tumble dryer lulled her to sleep. After the fifth load (she really had let things go for _far_ too long), she returned to her room to find the Doctor sitting on her bed, poking through her unmentionables like some exotic flora.

"D'you mind?" she snapped, dropping the basket and lunging forward to retrieve her (thankfully clean) knickers.

He raised an amused eyebrow at her. "They're just clothes, Rose."

"They're my _underpants_. They're...private."

"Why? Everyone wears pants--well, almost everyone," he said with an impish grin.

Rose blinked; he went on.

"Everyone _knows_ everyone wears pants. Why the need to pretend they don't exist?"

"I...they…" she sputtered, her brain still stuck on _almost everyone_. Did he not...no, he was just having her on, surely. "It's weird, all right? Just leave them."

She snatched the neatly folded pile of knickers from the bed, shoved them in a bureau drawer and slammed it shut, then spun to face the Doctor. He was still sitting on her bed, watching her, his face a too-perfect mask of innocence and indifference.

"What are you doing in here, anyway?" she said, exasperated.

"Can't I just want a chat?"

"Lately? No."

Rose made a show of turning away from him to continue putting her clothes in her bureau. The Doctor could natter at her all he wanted, but she wasn't going to drop everything for him. Not now. Not this time. After the last few days, the very least he could do was wait for her.

Of course, being the Doctor, he had to go and do the unexpected. He didn't talk, didn't comment disparagingly and at length on the untidiness of her room, or on the volume and variety (unnecessary, in his opinion) of clothing she owned. Nor did he make a seemingly innocuous observation that inevitably led to a carefully contrived recounting of one of his most impressive adventures. Instead he remained steadfastly, unnervingly silent.

Rose was determined not to break first. She wouldn't stop what she was doing. Wouldn't approach him, eyes brimming with concern, and ask him if he was all right. He was always all right; the question had no point. No, she was going to finish putting her clothes away and then if he still hadn't said anything, she was going to leave. She'd go to the kitchen--not the purple one, one of the other two--and make herself a cuppa. _Only one_ , she amended. Under no circumstances would she make, or even offer to make, a cup of tea for him in the hopes that he would sit down with his long legs splayed under the kitchen table, stare into the cup, and open up to her. If he wanted tea, he could make it his own damned, impossible, infuriating, unfathomable self.

Maybe she'd put enough water in the kettle for both of them, but that was as far as she was willing to go.

Her plan was proceeding brilliantly--until she ran out of laundry in the basket. The remainder of her clean clothes were sitting folded on the bed. To put them away, she'd need to face the Doctor. If she looked him in the eye, she'd have to say something. It would be impossible not to. The only option was to keep her head down, to look at the clothes and not the man sitting among them, and hope he broke before she did.

Rose steeled herself, took a deep breath, and turned. What she saw made her stop dead. The Doctor was still on her bed, but he'd long since stopped watching her. Instead, his attention was fixed on an object he held in his right hand, turning it in order to examine it from all angles.

Her breath hitched. He was going to say something--had to say something now--and she had no idea how he would react. The silence stretched and turned from awkward to unbearable.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked. His voice was unnaturally high-pitched and unconvincingly indifferent.

"Um, on Ruillyan, I think?" she replied, trying to sound distracted. "There was a little shop not far from the consulate or palace or whatever it was. It's rubbish, though, doesn't work."

"How's that?"

"The shopkeeper, he said all I had to do was like, jiggle it to make it turn on, even showed me. But when I got it back here, I did and nothing happened."

The Doctor raised his head, meeting Rose's eyes for the first time since she'd turned away from him. Without a word, he shook his right hand three times sharply, as if he were cracking a whip. The object he held illuminated at once, casting a gentle, flickering glow across his face.

"Huh, would you look at that," she said with a nervous giggle. "It works after all."

"You just have to know the trick of it," he said softly, then set the small light down on her night table. "A flameless candle, Rose?"

She shrugged. "I liked it."

"I told you--"

"I know what you told me," Rose shot back before he could finish. "I had an entire day to think about what you told me. More than. But I still don't know _why_."

The Doctor's face clouded. He stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets. "The TARDIS is all rested up," he said. "We'll be on our way soon."

"Doctor--"

"You'll want a jacket, or maybe a jumper. It's going to be a bit nippy where we're going, nothing too bad. Thought I'd let you know."

He pulled the lapels of his jacket close around him, as though the mere mention of a chill had made him feel it. Then, ever changeable, his expression cleared. He glowered at her, but it was all pretence, a furrowed brow over a barely-hidden smile.

"And don't take too long picking something out. No one is going to care what you're wearing where we're going," he grumbled, heading for the door. "Dunno why I bother trying to convince you of that. It's not like you ever believe me."


	3. Chapter 3

"Bang on time," the Doctor said when Rose entered the console room.

"See, I didn't take too long getting ready, did I?" she replied with a smile.

"Didn't mean you, you took forever. Like always. I meant me."

"You."

"Yup." He grinned, eyes closed, chin jutting out almost as much as his puffed-up chest. "I have landed us in exactly the right spot, in exactly the right time, because I am what?"

"A genius?" Rose deadpanned.

"Give the girl a medal. Or give me a medal, rather, since I'm the one who did everything while you tried on every jumper you own."

"Did not!"

The Doctor, having made his point, was already standing by the doors.

"If you're ready, can we go, please?" He opened the door and stepped out of the TARDIS ahead of Rose, who followed close behind.

The first thing she noticed was the scent. It was carried on the wind, which whipped up and wrapped around her like a ribbon, gliding across her skin and through her hair before fluttering away. It was the sea she smelled--the tang of the salt, the curious combination of impossibly clean air and sulphur from the decomposing kelp, and that hint of fishiness that reminded her of the invisible world that abounded below the waves. It was a gorgeous smell, and terrible--life with just a hint of death--and she inhaled deeply, breathing it in, letting it permeate her inside and out.

The TARDIS hadn't landed on the beach, but very near, just outside a group of tiny houses so few in number they could scarcely be called a village. Yet despite the paucity of homes the area hummed with activity. Dozens of people were streaming past, heading through the centre of the small community and over the dunes beyond to the water's edge.

"Wait here a tick," the Doctor said as he pulled the TARDIS door shut behind them. "And don't go wandering off, I mean it. There's going to be hundreds of people here, maybe more, it's going to be dark soon, and I don't fancy searching for you in the middle of everything. All right?"

Rose gave an exasperated sigh, but nodded. When that failed to satisfy him, she leaned back against the TARDIS and folded her arms, then shook her head as if to say, "Are you going or not?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes at her, took two steps away, then whirled back to face her. "Stay put," he ordered.

"Do I look like I'm moving?"

He didn't reply.

"Just _go_ already. It's getting dark."

It was true; the sun, already low against the horizon when they'd arrived, was now barely visible, its light diffused by the clouds rolling past. A few brilliant rays shot through, painting the mackerel sky in great swaths of purple, orange, and yellow. At the top of her range of vision, Rose could see the cobalt blue of night stealing across the heavens. She shaded her eyes with her hand, watching the night as it encroached bit by bit on the dazzling jewel tones of the sunset, turning the clouds from shining white to a dull, heavy grey. The sunlight tugged at her as it faded away; she wanted to follow the crowd to the beach, to chase the light for as long as it lasted.

The gentle caress of the evening breeze gave way to the bitterness of night air. Rose's skin prickled; even with the jumper, she was chilled. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, hunching her shoulders and lowering her head to conserve her body heat. When that did little to alleviate the sting, she walked, teeth chattering, to the other side of the TARDIS, using it as a windbreak while she waited for the Doctor to return.

Hidden as she was, she heard him before she saw him, the dusty gravel crunching as his familiar footsteps came to a sudden halt. He blew out a heavy, irritated breath, then muttered to himself. There was annoyance in his tone, and a barely detectable hint of alarm.

"What did I say?" he asked no one in particular. "What do I always say?"

"No wandering off," Rose said, flashing a cheeky grin as she rounded the corner of the TARDIS. "Which I didn't, so ha."

"First time for everything, I guess."

"Oi!" She unfolded her arms just long enough to smack his shoulder, then with a hiss pulled them back in close to her body.

"Cold?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What gave it away?"

"Come on, then, we can thaw you out once we get to the beach."

"Won't it be colder there?"

"Nope."

"And that works how?"

"You'll see." He grinned his Cheshire Cat grin--the one that drove her absolutely spare--and walked off in the direction of the beach, swinging a large paper sack that he held in his right hand.

Rose fumed. The Doctor never told her anything, just dangled uncertainty in front of her like a shiny trinket. Impossible, smug bastard that he was, he knew she'd have to see for herself just what was in the bag, or what was happening down on the beach. And if those temptations weren't enough (and they were, of course they were), there was the promise of warmth. Would it kill him, she wondered, to tell her what they were going to do, just once? That way at least she'd know when it started to go pear-shaped and could be better prepared for the inevitable "running for their lives" part of the adventure.

He'd almost faded from view, his black jacket and jeans blending seamlessly into the darkness. Rose had to run, focusing on his outline, on his unique gait to pick him out in the crowd. When she finally reached his side, he was standing near one of the many enormous bonfires that lined the beach, gazing out towards the sea.

"What happened to 'no wandering off?' " Rose panted, trying to catch her breath. The Doctor said nothing, just extended his left hand, obviously expecting her to take it without question.

She might have refused. But then a drone--so low she could feel it vibrating in her chest--swelled up around her, seemingly from nowhere. The drone continued, growing in strength until it filled the air, her body, and her mind. A hundred voices or more rose in song, rising over the drone in a descant, a chant she didn't comprehend yet still somehow understood.

Instinctively, her hand reached for the Doctor's. His long fingers wrapped tightly around hers, so much so that a jolt of fear shot through her. Concerned, she turned to the Doctor, expecting to be dragged off, whether into or out of danger she wasn't sure. Instead he remained utterly impassive, staring straight ahead and out to sea, aware of her but also lost in thought. His body was relaxed, and though his expression was serious, he didn't seem distressed. If she had to put a word to it, she'd have said he looked almost...reverent.

The song changed again, solemnity giving way to celebration as the drone faded away and was replaced by rhythmic clapping.

"That would be our cue," the Doctor said. When he spoke, Rose started; he grinned wryly, but said nothing more.

Lines began to form in the crowd. The people were heading (in as orderly a fashion as could be expected) to the water's edge, though why wasn't yet clear. All around were smiling faces. Even the Doctor exuded a kind of serenity, even if he was nowhere near as vivacious as those around them.

As they neared the head of the line the bodies in front of them thinned out, giving Rose a view of the water. Her breath caught at what she saw: glittering lines of tiny lights floated away from the shoreline like a string of luminous pearls. One by one, the revellers approached the shore, each carrying what looked like a shell in their cupped hands. A wick inside the shell was lit with a taper before it was released into the water. The lights bobbed in the gentle waves, joining the others to form unbroken, glowing lines that stretched out as far as Rose could see, eventually merging and spreading out like stars over the surface of the ocean.

Rose tugged on the Doctor's hand, then gestured for him to come closer. He inclined his head towards hers; she raised herself up on tiptoe to speak into his ear.

"What's it all for?" she asked.

"Midwinter--or what passes for winter on this planet--festival," he replied. "Which is pretty much the same no matter where you go, with the light coming to take the darkness away, that sort of thing. Only here, the people send away the past along with the darkness."

"How'd you mean?"

The Doctor raised the bag he still held. "The lights. When they let them go, they're casting out all their anger, their fear, their loss and grief, to be swallowed up and made pure by the sea."

"And we're going to let our pasts go as well?"

The Doctor turned away from her to stare out at the sea once more. Rose's eyes remained riveted on him while she tried to wish the words back in her mouth. She hadn't meant...of course she hadn't. Just a few minutes before, he'd looked more peaceful than she could ever remember seeing him. If he went back, if he got lost in his pain again because of her unthinking remark...

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I think it's...yeah."

They'd reached the front of the line. The Doctor opened the bag he held, carefully removing two of the floating lanterns while Rose took off her trainers and socks and rolled up her jeans. The sand was cold--much colder than she'd anticipated--and damp. Her feet sank into it, making a smacking sound whenever she took a step and broke the suction.

The Doctor passed Rose her lantern; she realised what she'd thought was a shell was in fact made of several layers of some sort of thin paper, moulded into the shape of a bowl. Inside, a makeshift wick was suspended in what looked like a kind of clarified butter, though Rose, unaware what planet they were on, couldn't be sure. A man lit the wick with a taper, then stepped aside to allow Rose to release the lamp into the waves.

She launched it with care, giving it an easy shove to set it off, then peered out of the corner of her eye at the Doctor. He bent over, looking deep into the candle flame before letting it slide out of his cupped hands and onto the surface of the water. It dipped sharply, almost submerging before popping back up and gliding off towards the open sea. As it floated away the Doctor straightened, tracking it with his eyes, watching it until it was indistinguishable from all the other lights.

The singing had died away. There was no sound save for the lapping of the waves and the crackle of the bonfires. Rose, unwilling to risk disturbing the Doctor's meditations, slipped discreetly off to the side. She sat in the sand--dry, if still cold--far from the light and warmth of the bonfires, put her shoes back on, and rolled her jeans down. There she waited, chin resting on her knees, her arms wrapped around her shins, until the Doctor appeared before her, hand outstretched. This time she took it without hesitation, smiling at him almost shyly as he pulled her to her feet, and together they walked back to the TARDIS.

 

~~~~~

The Doctor had--unusually for him--offered to make them both tea when they'd returned, and had suggested they take it in the library together before turning in for the evening. Rose was surprised but pleased, though she wasn't fooled into thinking he would tell her any more about his painful past. That, she supposed, had been the whole point of the night--if he'd let it go then he would no longer have a reason to look back, and certainly not to discuss it. She could only hope it had been more than playing along for him, and that maybe he'd managed to find some sense of peace with whatever sorrow he'd carried.

It took longer than she'd wanted to get to the library, but she'd gotten sand down her jeans and it was driving her mad. After a lightning-quick shower and a change into her pyjamas, she padded down the corridor to the library and opened the door. The Doctor was sitting on the floor reading, his back against the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. He had a steaming cup of tea by his side, and he was, bizarrely, barefoot. Rose burst into laughter at the sight.

"What?" he fairly whined, looking up at her. "The seawater got into my boots and soaked my socks right through. A man can't have wet socks, you know. It's undignified."

"And you're very dignified now," she retorted between giggles.

The Doctor looked down at his feet, then back up to her. "It's only until my socks dry," he grumbled. "Now if you're done mocking me, come in and have your tea before it gets cold. Again." With that, he returned to his book.

With her lips pressed together to stifle a laugh, Rose made to collect her teacup from the sofa table. Before she'd taken two steps into the room, she stopped dead in her tracks. The Doctor's socks were lying flat on the floor, next to his boots--in front of a cheery, crackling fire.

He'd added a fireplace.

"Better than a tumble dryer, don't you think?" he said, without looking up from his book. "At least for drying damp socks."

Rose's heart clenched. She picked up her teacup and settled in on the sofa behind the Doctor.

"Yeah," she said softly as her head came to rest on a pillow. "Much better." She paused, unsure what to say next. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he replied.

She didn't.


End file.
